Best Left Forgotten?
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is forced to deal with a long supressed memory from his childhood, only to have tragedy strike him down. Dr. John Watson tries to help his friend, but soon learns from Mycroft that Sherlock's emotions will take longer to heal than his body. Perhaps this memory was better left forgotten.


The telegram Dr. Watson held in his hand had arrived at the flat of 221B Baker Street just after 6 o'clock in the evening. The telegram itself contained detailed instructions for Watson and Watson alone, to follow to the letter. If he failed to obey these written orders, then Sherlock Holmes would be lost forever.

He took in a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves as he, once again, read the telegram that had now begun to smudge from the constant exposure to his shaking, sweaty palms:

**GO TO THE DOCKS AT 377 DOVER STREET AT EXACTLY 8 O'CLOCK THIS EVENING. **

**DO NOT BRING POLICE. YOU MUST COME ALONE. DO NOT ARM YOURSELF. **

**FAIL TO FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS AND SHERLOCK HOLMES WILL DIE.**

The clock down the hallway struck its toll seven times. Watson's eyes were drawn to the dimly lit hall as the clock chimed its mocking tune.

"Almost time…" Watson took the small watch from his pocket, flipped open the case and checked to ensure his watch was synchronized with the clock. "Nearly an hour to wait…"

Anxiously the doctor paced about near the front windows, occasionally looking out. A part of him believed that before the hour was up, he'd see Sherlock Holmes himself walking down the street and back toward the flat unharmed. Then he'd feel the telegram still in his grip and remind himself of the danger that Holmes had inevitably placed himself earlier that day.

The morning had started out uneventful, as per usual, until an unusual article in the morning newspaper caused Holmes to rise from his armchair in alarm. He threw the paper down into the fire before grabbing his dark coat and storming toward the door. Watson of course put to a stop Holmes from leaving by gripping the taller man by his shoulders. There was a look of pure anger and concern plastered across his once stoic features.

"Holmes, what the Devil is wrong?"

"Watson, this is of no concern of yours. It is my burden to bear and mine alone."

"I can't accept that answer Holmes. Tell me what is going on."

"I cannot tell you anything. At least not yet."

Watson did not release his grip; he remained firm with Holmes waiting for the true answer to reveal itself.

"Watson, if there was ever time when I needed you to trust me, this is that hour. Please, let me go. There is nothing you can do to aid or prevent the events I must partake in, the game is already afoot."

Compassion was shining through the detectives bright, grey-green eyes. Watson rarely saw the man express any emotion regardless of the situation at hand. He now understood the severity of the actions that have taken place. Though he was reluctant to do so, Watson released Holmes from his grip. He watched as the detective left the flat in a hurry, quickly disappearing down the street as the bustle of the city began to go about its usual routine.

Once Sherlock Holmes was out of sight, Watson dashed over to the hearth in an attempt to salvage as much of the burning newspaper as he could. Of course the flames made short work of the delicate material; all that Watson could retrieve was a small remnant of the article Holmes appeared to have been reading. He couldn't make out any words or letters but could see the distinct impression of a small flower printed beneath the dialogue. It looked very much like a blossoming rose.

The hours ticked by slowly, every minute passing slower than the last. Once noon had come and gone, Watson felt a pang of worry enter his heart. Sherlock Holmes had been known to disappear for hours, even days on end. He even managed to go into hiding for three years to root out the remaining members of the late Professor Moriarty's gang. But this was different. There was something personal at stake for Sherlock Holmes. Something that seemed to have awakened his long dormant emotions from the darker side of man's heart. The consulting detective rarely ever spoke of his past, let alone his childhood. His brother Mycroft Holmes offered no further knowledge of their shared past either. Dr. Watson could only speculate the infinite causes of Sherlock's grief. All the time he had spent as his Boswell enlightened the doctor to numerous foes and villains that Holmes had gained from his endeavors for justice during his career, but so much more evil could be laying in wait from the darkness of his past. Evil's that sent shivers of dread up the patient doctor's spine.

Once the telegram arrived that evening, his fears only intensified for the safety of his closest friend. Now the doctor was too drawn into the unknown of the case. Giving his pocket watch a second glance, he found the time was now just past 7o'Clock in the evening. It was time for Watson to leave, unarmed and alone.

The walk to the dock was seemed long, while eerily quiet. The entire city seemed to have fallen asleep that night, not a single person crossed the doctors path and no carriages drove by, for first and the only time he could remember the streets were silent and still. The street lamps were dimly lit, barely bright enough to cast a shadow of the buildings upon the ground. Crossing over from paved ground to the rough, wooden planks of the dock caused his footsteps to suddenly echo. He froze in place, startled by his own presence. He stopped and listened, waited, for any sign of any other person who was also at the dock. He saw no one and heard no one moving. He was alone.

Dr. John Watson stood alone, his back to the large shipping crates the lined the dock from the street to the edge of the pier. The dullness of the street lamps failed to cast any significant source of light upon the docks, the night now seemed much darker than it had been before. The smell of the stagnant ocean water from the calm and still night filled the air; the noxious odor was enough to cause an unsettling feeling in his stomach as we waited patiently for any word of Sherlock Holmes. Once more he took out his watch and checked the time: 8 o'clock on the dot. It was time. But where was Sherlock Holmes and where were the men who had sent Watson the telegram?

Creaking of the planks from the distance drew Watson's attention toward the oncoming sound. He stared hard through the darkness, his eyes slowly focused on the approaching form of a largely built man, with broad shoulders, poor stature though he appeared to be quite tall and rough, unmanaged beard across his clenched jaw line. The man walked toward the center of the docks then stood his ground; his dark, narrow eyes seemed to be just as focused on Watson, as Watson was focused on him. Cautiously, Watson slowly approached the man, doing his best to hide his fear while trying to not come across as an immediate threat that would drive the man away.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?" The man's voice was deep with an air of authority.

"Yes. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"I assure you that your nosey friend is alive."

Watson swallowed hard. "But where is he?"

"He is close."

"What did you do to with him? And what do you want from me? If it's about money I'm sure I could-"

"This is not about money, Dr. Watson." Watson quieted himself; he was not expecting such a cold response. "This is about leaving the past where it lies and leaving it forgotten forevermore. You're friend was foolish. Now he has paid for his arrogance."

The man clicked his fingers together, the sound reverberating through the wharf. Soon the sound of a carriage wheels being pulled along the wooden planks by a single horse. The carriage pulled around and parked itself between the two men; Watson could no longer see the enigmatic figure that had directed him to the dock. The sound of the side door opening was the only indication Watson had that the man had moved since the carriage blocked his line of sight. The door shut as the carriage began to rock in a metronomic fashion. The door that faced Watson burst open and the man's face peered through the darkness at the doctor once more.

"Remind your friend that is he is to ever cross my path again; he will not be so fortunate."

On that note, the man pushed the unconscious form of Sherlock Holmes out of the carriage and onto the dock at Dr. Watson's feet. His limp, unconscious body fell hard against the ground as the door slammed shut and the carriage took off back down the dock into the darkness, disappearing into the night from whence it came.

"Holmes! My God man, what have they done to you?"

Watson had knelt down beside Holmes, who was lying on his right side, still unconscious. Watson gingerly turned Holmes' unconscious, pale face upward as if he were looking at Watson. A large welt protruded from Holmes' right temple, while his left eye had been swollen shut by a fierce blow; it'd be at least a month before he could even hope to open it again. The bridge of his nose was split open with a gash, while a second longer gash marked his cheek beneath his right eye. A small trickle of blood ran down his nose, and a small stream of blood oozed down from his split lip.

Fortunately his instincts as a doctor managed to override his emotional attachment to the broken man that lay before him. He ran his hand down Holmes' back checking for any sign of a spinal or neck injury. Finding none, he gently turned Holmes over from his side onto his back. Watson had to choke back a gasp, the damage was far worse than he had initially suspected.

Sherlock Holmes' shirt had been torn to shreds by numerous encounters by an unyielding blade of a large hunting knife. Tattered remnants of the shirt had been stained a sickening crimson hue from the blood of the lacerated wounds concealed beneath. Multiple slashes cut deep into his chest; each seemed deeper than the last. Carefully Watson peeled back the bloodied fabric to expose all the wounds that marred Holmes' chest and torso; his ribcage was swollen, turned purple by the extensive bruises that had already begun to show. The consulting detective was breathing laboriously through the pain, he would wheeze in protest as Watson began to check the extensiveness of each injury. In the process however, he felt the protrusion of at least two broken ribs shifting about loosely in the man's chest beneath his hands. Holmes let out a small groan of pain but still remained in blissful state of unconsciousness.

Watson quickly ran his hands down Holmes' arms and legs, his left shoulder had been dislocated and laid unnaturally at his side. Watson had found the bones in is limbs still in tact, except each finger on his left hand had been broken, one at a time. "_That diabolical sod._" It was becoming increasingly difficult for Watson to repress his emotions as his examination came to a close.

"I'm sorry about this Holmes, but it's for your own good."

With a tight grip and strong pull, Dr. Watson forced Sherlock Holmes' bad shoulder back into its correct alignment. The unconscious detective managed to suppress a moan of agony as Watson finished the procedure by gently draping the bad arm over the man's bloodied abdomen. Watson rubbed his hand over his chin and sighed. He just stared at his friend, lying helpless and injured in a manner that horrified even the seasoned doctor.

"Let's get you home, shall we?"

Dr. Watson wrapped is arm around Holmes' rib, careful to avoid aggravating the bleeding wounds. He draped Holmes good arm over his own shoulder than helped the detective into a sitting position before using all his strength to heft Holmes' dead-weight up and onto his feet. Sherlock Holmes' unconscious head hung down against his chest. The blood from his lip began to run down his chin and onto his chest. Watson proceeded to use his free arm to lift up Holmes' legs off the ground. With the detective cradled in his arms, Watson turned his focus to the street and to the nearest hospital. He ignored the pain as leg ached from the excess weight he was forced to accommodate.

As he stepped past the second block Watson accepted the truth that he lacked the physical strength and energy to carry Holmes to the hospital, he had to settle for the relative safety of their flat on Baker Street; which by good fortune was to be passed en route the hospital.

Sherlock Holmes remained unconscious and unmoving in Dr. Watson's arms. The drying blood stained his face and clothes, while his injured arm remained heavy across his abdomen. Awkwardly opening the front door, Watson took in a breath of both relief and out of exhaustion. He eyed the staircase wearily; the dead weight in his arms was feeling heavier against him with each passing second. The sitting room would have to suffice as the detective's sick-room, instead.

The consulting detective remained oblivious the events that were unfolding all around him. He would have no memory of his abandonment at the dock, no memory of Dr. Watson arriving at the dock by order of his abductors to retrieve his broken body, no memory of the long walk back to Baker Street and no memory of Watson forcing himself to walk up the seventeen steps along the staircase to gather his medical bag and other required supplies in order to remedy Holmes of his injuries. However, in a cold twist of cruelty, he would retain memories of the brutal assault that left him injured and in great pain. He would still remember each relentless blow of their fists upon his face and chest and torso, he would still taste every drop of blood that ran from his battered body and he would still hear the echoing, sickening crack of his fingers being broken, one by one, as his mad captor laughed with demonic hysterics at the sight of his captee struggling fruitlessly, though silently, against his binds. Yes, he would also remember that despite the agony and horror that he had endured at the hands of his heartless abductor, Sherlock Holmes did let out a single utterance of pain or fear, he refused to give the sadist the pleasure.

With his medical bag in hand, Dr. Watson returned his the sitting room where his injured friend still lay, unconscious and bleeding lightly upon the sofa. Watson leaned over Holmes, carefully checking the bloodied wounds that marred his chest and abdomen. Using a clean, white cloth, Watson washed away the dried blood stains while cleansing each laceration with great care. All was silent in the flat save for the crackling glow of the fire that cast dancing shadows about the walls of the sitting room.

"Where… Where am I?" Holmes' question was but a whisper that escaped from his mangled form.

"You're safe old friend. You're back on Baker Street. Now be still, I must mend your wounds before they become septic."

Through a tiny slit, Sherlock Holmes glanced about the room, his eye unable to fully focus anything until he glimpsed the concern upon Dr. Watson's face.

"Holmes, I need to check your back for any possible injury. I did not feel any misaligned vertebrae upon my initial examination, but I fear there maybe some underlying bruising. If you could please turn to your side, I can check again without irritating your current condition."

Silently Sherlock Holmes obliged and turned to his side, exposing his back to the doctor. Watson lifted up his shirt and was immediately relived at the lack of bruising and absolutely no sign of knife play. There was a mild discoloration of the flesh near his left shoulder blade from the injured arm which had already been remedied, as well as minor bruises that stretched from the front of his ribcage toward his back."

"Okay, you can lie back again, be mindful of your ribs."

His silence remained as he turned slowly onto his back. His eyes were closed again, though Watson could see his eyes flittering about restless beneath the darkened lids.

Watson proceeded to roll up the torn, stained sleeves of Holmes' shirt when he noticed that there was circular bruising about both wrists. Gently he checked the radial pulse of both hands to ensure that the circulation was not damaged, as he did one thought kept repeating itself over and over again in his mind:

"_The sadistic cowards, they bound him to a chair. He couldn't fight back, he just couldn't_."

One by one, Watson set the broken bones in the left hand, wincing very time he felt the muscles tense up beneath his grip knowing that he was source of the pain that Holmes was now feeling, though he never made a sound.

"I see no sign of impending infection which is of course good news. Now I must wrap each wound to keep any foreign matter from causing an infection down the road. Do you need a rest, or shall I continue?"

"Just get on with it."

His voice was uncharacteristically dull, just as unusual as his current overall demeanor. Whenever Sherlock Holmes took ill and required medical supervision, he was the most stubborn and difficult patient that Dr. John Watson had ever had the misfortune to know. Now he was complacent, maybe even submissive. It was almost as if Sherlock Holmes had simply given up.

"Holmes? Look at me."

His eye lids id not move they remained closed and eerily dark against his pale skin.

"Sherlock. Please, I need you to look at me."

Fitfully his good eye slowly opened, his eye was bright against the bloodshot hue of his damaged tissue. He forced himself to look up at Watson; it was a struggle for his vision to even focus.

"I need you to sit up so I can wrap up your injuries around your ribcage. If you feel any discomfort let me know, it could be a sign of hidden damage that would otherwise go undetected."

He had no strength left to lift himself up. Watson moved quick enough to catch the weak detective before he fell back limply. It pained Watson to see his friend so helpless, so beaten down and broken. The doctor forced Holmes to lean forward while draping his good arm over the back of the sofa for leverage as he pulled back what remained of Holmes' shirt from his chest.

Watson proceeded to produce rolls of fresh bandages from his bag as he skillfully concealed the red injuries beneath the white cotton.

"Holmes, what were you doing? Why did this happen to you? Who were those ghastly men?"

The detective remained silent. The crackling fire seemed to grow even louder and brighter as the evening fell into night.

Finished, Watson helped Holmes replace his shirt and used his hands to guide his damaged back down to the sofa, allowing him to lean against the soft cushions and pillow.

"Now, all that remains is the sever blow to your eye. Does it hurt you?"

"No."

"Well, that's surprising."

Dr. Watson once again dipped a clean cloth into the warm and began to wipe away the dried blood from Sherlock Holmes' face. The blood managed to stain his entire face; it even plastered bits of his once loose hair to his forehead. Once the blood from his lips and nose was removed, Watson could see the dark bruises that were forming clearly. The attackers used their fists to beat the detective mercilessly, but for what? But it was only when he removed the blood from beneath his swollen, dark eye did Watson see how horrendous the assault had been. He couldn't hide the disgust he felt upon gruesome discovery.

"Is it really that bad, Watson?"

"No Holmes, it just, it _looks_ that bad. That's all."

"You have a terrible poker face Watson. I do wish you'd let me school you in proper card etiquette one day."

Watson forced himself to chuckle a little; though Holmes knew it was an attempt for false humor he said nothing about it. He focused his eye on Watson with a look of fear and regret.

"We're alone, yes?"

"Yes. It is just you and I tonight."

"Then they did it. They really did it."

Watson finished cleaning the horrid wounds about Holmes' chest as he looked to his friend's face with concern and curiosity.

"What did 'they do'?"

"They…" He stopped a moment to stifle an unexpected sob. "They killed her."

Watson froze in place, his hand still placed gently on Holmes' eye. He stared down at his friend with bewilderment.

"Who did they kill, Holmes? Who is 'she'?"

"My… She was my sister, Watson. They killed my sister!"

"But Holmes, you don't have a sister!" Watson immediately drew his hand up to Holmes' forehead, certain he had spiked a fever and was now suffering from delirium.

"No I don't Watson, not anymore. They took her away from me!"

Holmes forced Watson's hand away from his face as he covered it with both of his own broken hands. He attempted to control himself, but his sorrow was so deep and painful that his whole body was wracking with his grief.

"What happened to your sister?"

"They killed her! Weren't you listening to me?" He sat up with a start, his face red with tears and anger. Through his swollen eye lids, his eye glared with fire at Watson for his ignorance.

"Who killed her? And why would they do so?"

"They were once followers of Moriarty. They wanted to spill the blood of a Holmes, but if they were to touch Mycroft or myself or even you, Watson; they knew Scotland Yard would track them down without fail."

"So instead, they went after your sister?"

Holmes resumed sobbing to himself; he nodded furiously from behind his bandaged hands.

"Why have you never mentioned her before?"

"I do not think it was important." He stifled another sob. "My God Watson, did you just hear what I said? 'not important', she was my sister and I didn't find her to be important!" He began to clench his fists against his face, forcing his cuts to resume bleeding.

"Holmes? Holmes! Get a hold of yourself man!" Watson grabbed hold of both of his arms and pried them away from his face and eyes. "Look at me! Look at me!"

Holmes suddenly stopped resisting; he took in deep laborious breaths and leaned back against the sofa, his spine rigid from the pain.

"Holmes?" Watson leaned toward his friend, seeing his eye shut as he fell unconscious.

Worried that in his fit of grief he had aggravated his injuries, Watson placed his stethoscope against the detective's chest and listened. His heart was racing, thumping loudly in his ears; while his breathing was slow and shallow. Once sure that he was stable, Watson retracted his arm and wrapped the stethoscope about his neck.

"Hysterics. I never thought I'd see the day that Sherlock Holmes would have an emotional breakdown like this."

There was nothing more he could do for Sherlock in his condition, for the time being. His fear had become overshadowed by the curiosity of this supposed long-lost Holmes sibling. He sent out a telegram to Mycroft Holmes, asking the detective's older brother for any information as to what Sherlock Holmes was so torn up about.

The morning came after an uneventful night. Watson had left Holmes to rest on the sofa while he took up residence in the armchair. There was a knock at the door just as the sun was coming up. It wasn't unusual for visitors to appear at the steps of 221B Baker Street at odd hours, but rarely had anyone ever come so early.

Careful to leave the room without disturbing Holmes, Watson made his way to the door only to find himself face-to-face with the other Holmes, Mycroft Holmes.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?"

"I got your telegram last night Watson. Why else would I be here?" He held up the telegram in his hand for Watson to see.

"Yes, yes of course. What I meant was what are you doing here, _so early_?"

"Since you and I are not one to associate on typical social terms, not to mention your inquires of a 'missing sibling', I can only deduce that something rather unfortunate has taken place and that Sherly has been the victim of said unfortunate event." He turned his head with a hint of arrogance as he watched Watson's reaction. "Am I right?"

"Indeed you are. Please, come inside." He stood to the side with his arms open, directing the elder Holmes into the flat.

"Thank you."

Watson lead the way into the sitting room where Sherlock Holmes still slept, his eyes were shut and his breathing was slow, but his body was still tense as if he were awaiting another blow by an unseen foe.

"He was attacked last night, while I was cleaning his injuries he claimed that the men that he had gone to meet had killed his sister. I suppose she'd be _your _sister too. Correct?"

"No." Mycroft answered without any emotion in his voice as he walked over to the armchair that Watson had been dozing in and sat down. "You see Dr. Watson, this 'sister' he refers to, is not a sister born by blood or even marriage. But a sister born of bond."

"She was a friend of his?"

"Not just a friend Watson, his only friend from childhood."

"Why has he never spoken of her before this tragic event?"

"Because he did not remember her until he was reminded of her."

"I don't understand." He began to pace about opposite Sherlock Holmes as he lay on the sofa. "If she was so important, how could he forget about her until last night and be so broken up about her death?"

"Ah! The 'how' is easy, it's the 'why' that is difficult to explain."

"Please, do try."

"Very well. As you may have deduced from your time spent with Sherly, that we did not exactly come from a home full of love or kindness or any emotion at all. Am I right?"

Watson merely nodded, then gestured for Mycroft to continue.

"Well, I was so preoccupied with my own affairs that I did not make much time for Sherly or to even take notice of the daily torments he had endured. Father Holmes was a drunk and a bit of a fiend who enjoyed taking his anger out on his two sons. While Mother Holmes was a vain woman who cared more about the opinion of 'lover' than for her family. While I was away, dear mummy and daddy would vent their frustrations by using Sherly as their target. Mother enjoyed playing against his emotions while Father would use his body as his 'punching bag."

"Wait, wait, wait…" Watson couldn't believe what he was hearing about Sherlock Holmes' boyhood. "What does this have to do with this 'sister'?"

"If you will so kindly allow me to finish?"

Watson stopped pacing and stood behind the sofa, looking down at Sherlock with great pity.

"As I was saying, without a kind presence in the house, Sherlock would disappear for hours on end into his own thoughts. Taking time to learn every detail of every room he ever walked and every line of every book he ever read. He rarely spent time in doors as he got older, as 9 years of age, he would rather spend his time wandering about the grounds or the nearby forest and lake, than be near dear Mother and Father. While out on one of his journey's, he happened to cross paths with a lovely young maiden, she was 12 years of age I believe, and this young maiden introduced herself as Emily. Emily recognized the signs of a child in deep despair that I either, did not see or refused to see, and she took the time to be his friend."

"Emily? She is the sister." Watson seemed to be lost in his own thoughts; he pictured a young boy alone and scared with a beautiful angel in the guise of a young maiden to act his friend.

"Emily and Sherly spent many hours together. She would talk to him about the animals and the flowers, while he's analyze the animals and flowers. Yet she was not offended or frightened his eccentricities, in fact, she encouraged him to continue his amazing talent for memory and deduction. Their friendship had been established for only a few weeks before Emily, humorously, started introducing Sherly as her pet brother to her other friends and even to her parents."

"She saved him then, as a young child, she saved him from becoming a man of anger and possibly crime."

"I believe she did."

"What happened to her? Why did her forget such a wonderful young lady?"

"As their friendship grew closer, the jealousy of the suitors who eyes Emily grew fiercer. Since as she was his senior by three years, he could not ask for her in marriage until he was of 18 years and she would be of 21. And as you know, women of such character do not stay available long. When he was 16 years of age, making her 19, a strong, handsome chap of great wealth asked for her hand. Unfortunately, Emily's wonderfully big heart was unable to detect the wicked from the kind."

"But Sherlock can, and he did, didn't he?"

Mycroft nodded solemnly.

"He knew that the man that had chosen Emily would not treat her well. Did he not warn her?"

"Of course he did, he warned her many times to choose another suitor but she did not want to break the devil's heart. She thanks Sherlock for his friendship and promised that she'd always think of him as her dear brother. The night after Emily and her husband left, Sherlock forced himself to forget about Emily, his friendship and thus his sister."

"Then what brought back the memories of her to begin with?"

"That's for you to tell me doctor. Did he receive any strange guests, an unexpected parcel or a letter?"

"No, but there was something in the newspaper. An article that upset him and dashed off without explaining his reason. He burnt the paper in his haste so I was unable to read what he had read."

"Indeed. I believe I can be of assistance to you." Mycroft Holmes pulled a small article that had been clipped from the newspaper, from his coat pocket. He cleared his voice before reading the passage aloud:

**Seeking an old friend of childhood. He is a successful sleuth. And I am his sister. Meet at the 'Yellow Rose Rub' at 10 this morning. -E**

"'E' could only mean Emily." Watson rubbed his chin anxiously. "But why would Emily want to harm-"

"Yes, doctor?"

"It was a trap. A trap set by her husband. But why?"

Mycroft pulled a second article from his pocket; this one had been clipped away from the obituaries.

**The body of Mrs. Emily Rawson was discovered by authorities in her garden. Police believe that she had been the victim of an opportunistic mugging, so suspects have been named. She is survived by her husband Mr. Darren Rawson.**

"**Rawson! Where have I heard that name before?" Watson looked down at Sherlock as if the sleeping man would suddenly rise up and deliver the answer himself.**

**Silence filled the room as Watson wracked his brain, trying to remember why Rawson was significant when it finally dawned on him.**

"**Rawson was the name of a person of great interest during an investigation into embezzlement. Holmes solved it, named him and he was promptly arrested. Rawson recognized Holmes but it wasn't mutual. My God, are you saying that Rawson killed his own wife to spite Holmes?"**

"**He was a wicked man, as I had already told you. Not to mention his name was tied in with Moriarty. I believe this combination of fate that Holmes placed against Rawson was enough to send him over the edge and to take dear, sweet Emily with him."**

**The rest of the day was quiet. Once Mycroft bade himself goodbye, Watson resumed his doctorly duty of cleaning and redressing Sherlock's injuries. Another day passed before Sherlock awoke. With a very ginger tone, Watson told Holmes how Mycroft had come and gone, and explained the situation with Emily and her husband Rawson.**

**The next morning was Emily's funeral. Watson was expecting a large crowd of mourners from the story that Mycroft had told, but there were only a handful of people in attendance. Both her parents had passed; she was an only child and had not children of her own. Rawson was on the lam and he had intentionally isolated himself with Emily to make her completely dependant upon her husband for everything she needed and the companionship she desired. After Mycroft arrived shortly after Sherlock and Watson, the funeral proceeded and finished within a very small window of time. **

**It began to rain a cold, heavy downpour across the countryside. As the first few drops splashed the ground, all the mourners left save for Sherlock Holmes. He stood by the grave silently, his body was still covered in his injuries and bandages, and his arm was in a sling tucked under his black coat, with a small yellow object tucked with. Once more, his emotions were under his control, but his eyes told everyone who looked at him how much his heart ached. The storm halted and the day grew older, Watson had to pull at Holmes' arm to get him to leave the cemetery. But not before he cast a single yellow rose on the grave of his late friend.**

**Sitting by the hearth in their flat of Baker Street, Watson watched in great awe as Holmes stared blankly out the window, watching the storm resume its power. Without turning his gaze, Holmes spoke to Watson wit a calm, steady voice. **

"**Yellow is the color for happiness. A rose is a symbol for love. A yellow rose is the symbol for happy love, a friendship that can withstand the test of time and change."**

"**Where did you learn that?" Watson sat with his head propped up against his hand, he already knew the answer.**

"**From Emily."**

"**Sounds like she was right."**

"**She was, Watson. She was right."**

**- The End**


End file.
